


Reception

by BerityBaker



Series: Come What May [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, F/M, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerityBaker/pseuds/BerityBaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything goes to hell when a bomb goes off during Sherlock and John's wedding reception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reception

“So if you’d have told me ten years ago that I would someday be speaking at Sherlock’s wedding, I wouldn’t have believed you. As it is, I am delighted to be here to send Sherlock Holmes and the man who loves him even more than he could ever love himself off into their new life together. Now, if you’d all raise your glasses and be upstanding…”

Sherlock turned to John, who was grinning from ear to ear.

As everyone toasted them and their happiness, Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder. John looked at him quizzically, but didn’t stop him from standing as Lestrade took his seat.

Sherlock swallowed. All eyes were on him for the second time at a wedding—the second time in his _adult_ life, at least. The difference now was that he had no words prepared this time. He stood, silently staring at the befuddled faces of friends and family. He saw Mycroft rolling his eyes, saw tears in his mother’s, and had just glanced Mrs. Hudson’s way when she said, “Are you alright, dear?”

He swallowed again.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, and offered his hand.

Sherlock took it.

“You all know I’m not very sociable, bit of an arsehole, really, and no one knows that better than Lestrade.” A few snorts of amusement were scattered among the guests, the loudest of which came from the DI himself. “No one, except perhaps John.”

John squeezed his hand affectionately. He took a deep breath.

“John Watson never questions what I do, why I risk my life ‘just to prove I’m clever.’” He saw John smile in the corner of his eye. “He fit right in with my lifestyle from the start, never stopping to catch his breath and always looking out for my safety, even when it meant endangering his own. For that, I owe him my life—although I’m not quite certain he’d be so keen on my letting him take it.”

He stopped. He was rambling, and it occurred to him that speaking of his own death, even in a joking manner, was bad form at his own wedding, especially with all things considered.

“All I can give him, then, is love.” He looked down at his husband. “But I’m not even sure that giving him that will do. You see, if I were to give him all of the love I am capable of feeling, it wouldn’t change the fact that he taught me how to love in the first place.”

John’s eyes shined as though he might cry, but no tears fell. Instead he launched himself into Sherlock’s arms.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock murmured.

“I love you, too, you sentimental git,” John laughed, wiping at the corners of his eyes as he pulled away.

Sherlock glanced up at the crowd to see everyone doing the same. At the front of the room, near Sherlock’s parents, a very pregnant Molly dabbed at her cheeks with Lestrade’s handkerchief. Harry Watson blew her nose quite loudly and blushed.

“John and I were meant to be, it seems,” Sherlock said with a cautious grin, relieving the serious mood.

“I’ll say!” Mrs. Hudson practically shouted.

“Anyway, we’d like to thank you all,” Sherlock continued, “for sharing this—”

A sudden, resounding _BOOM_ cut him off. The whole reception hall trembled before another more deafening explosion followed the first, leaving Sherlock’s ears ringing. The whole hall erupted into confused, panicked whispers. All Sherlock could do was stand there, stunned.

John was out of his seat in a flash. He was halfway down the long table when he turned and raced back to Sherlock, pulling him close with a quick, rather frightened kiss. “Stay here,” John instructed, and he ran back up the table, then out of the room and down the corridor.

Sherlock followed him.

John stopped at the double doors that served as the entrance to the building and threw one open.

Smoke poured in, eliciting coughing and sputtering from the two of them as well as Lestrade, who’d joined them in jumping into action. “What’s going on out there?” Lestrade hacked.

“Bomb’s just gone off,” John said in disbelief, stepping aside for him to see, and as a result clearing a view for Sherlock.

Chunks of pavement and earth littered the pebbled walkway, and a few trees had been uprooted at the edge of a nearby wood. Much more debris was just barely visible through the black smoke. The last thing Sherlock saw before Lestrade shut the door was the archway under which they’d planned to take a few photos after the cake was cut, lying just in front of the door, some fifty feet from its original position at the end of the walk.

“Keep everyone calm,” Lestrade told them, pulling out his phone and striding down the hall to coat check.

“He’ll be getting his gun,” Sherlock said.

“I should hope so,” John replied.

“Shouldn’t you get yours?”

“You assume I brought my gun to our wedding?”

“Yes.”

John sighed. “It’s under the table.”

Sherlock smirked. “Couldn’t even bear for it to be as far as the coat room.”

“Of course not, it’s my wedding. _Our_ wedding. It was only a matter of time before something happened.”

“Could be worse. A bomb could’ve gone off in the middle of the ceremony.”

“Yeah, and your mother would’ve had a bloody heart attack because I’d finally gotten you to the altar and something ruined it.”

“Thank god we’ve already got the rings, then.” Sherlock smirked that half-smirk again, and he’d known John would smile back before it happened.

When they reentered the room, everyone was already doing their best to keep calm. Sherlock’s mother had taken the stage and forced everyone to silence before calling on guests one by one, as though they were schoolchildren.

Glancing around, Sherlock pointed at Molly, who seemed to be hyperventilating. “Take care of her,” he said to John, who went to her immediately.

“Alright, listen everyone,” he said, cutting across his mother without a thought. He glanced to Mycroft’s seat and was unsurprised to see it vacant.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson said.

“We’re…not sure,” Sherlock answered, frustrated.

“What was that noise? Was it a bomb?”

“Yes, Archie, it was a bomb. Two bombs, by the sound.”

That set the murmurs into motion once again. “If you could all settle down—” Sherlock shouted angrily.

“Sherlock,” John said, a note of army doctor returning as it sometimes did to his tone. Sherlock’s head whipped toward him. “Get Greg,” he said urgently.

“What?”

“Lestrade! Get him. Now!”

Sherlock took one look at Molly and then took off at a sprint. He ran down the hall, trying to remember where the coat closet was located. “Lestrade!” What had been the point of forcing John to find all of those floorplans of all of those reception halls if he couldn’t remember where the bloody coats were kept in a crisis?

He skidded to a halt and squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. After a moment, he turned tail and began running in the opposite direction. “Lestrade!” he repeated over and over until he ran right into him around a corner.

“Sherlock, there’s a lot going on right now. The authorities are on their way, but there’s only so much they can do, there’ve been similar attacks all around London, it’s as though there’s—”

“Greg,” Sherlock cut across him. “Molly’s going into labor.”

Lestrade simply stared at him, and for a moment Sherlock had the absurd thought that maybe he’d gotten his name wrong again, but it didn’t much matter when he put his face in his hands and muttered, “Christ,” before running up the corridor with Sherlock right on his heels.

“You’re sure?” Greg huffed as he ran.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John _is_ a doctor. Yes, I think he’s sure.”

“Christ,” Lestrade breathed again, turning into the large room once more and making his way to where he knew his wife had been sitting.

“Greg.” Molly smiled as he approached. Then her face screwed up in pain again.

“Do you know the route to the hospital?” John asked in desperation.

“John…the hospital is gone,” Greg replied, shaking his head, eyes wide with worry.

“You mean…? Christ,” John said. “Fine. We’ll just have to…” He trailed off, unsure.

“You deliver it,” Sherlock said, and John glared at him. “What? You’re a doctor.”

“Yes, but I’ve never delivered a baby, Sherlock.”

“Well, what other choice have we got?” Sherlock yelled, exasperated.

John sighed. “Fine. But you’re helping. You and Greg, you’re going to do whatever I bloody tell you to.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock nodded. It was the least he could do after everything he’d put Greg and Molly through.

John instructed the two of them to help her to someplace more apt to delivering a baby while he went to get his medical kit from the coat closet.

“What good is your medical kit going to do? It’s a baby, not a bullet wound!” Sherlock shouted after him as he ran.

“Better safe than sorry!” John countered over his shoulder without stopping.

“What the _hell_ does he mean, ‘more apt to delivering a baby’?” Sherlock said as Greg gently lifted Molly.

“How should I know? I’ve never done it before either!”

Sherlock shouted an unintelligible, frustrated syllable and strode through the double-doors once again, barely slowing down enough for Greg and Molly to keep up.

“Here.” He stepped aside and gestured into a smaller room, likely meant for much smaller, intimate parties. John came running back with his kit, dragged them all inside, and closed the doors behind them.

Sherlock had to say that helping to deliver a baby was the most stressful activity he’d ever taken part in. There was so much shouting, so much he didn’t know about the process that he’d thought he did, not to mention the pressure of making sure Molly and the baby both ended up alive—something that terrified him to no end.

It was hours before John and Sherlock left Greg, Molly, and their baby alone and returned to the disaster that was their wedding reception.

“That was…” Sherlock began, not sure what to say.

“Yes, it was,” John replied.

Sherlock took John’s hand as they walked back through the double-doors. “You were…fantastic.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yes. Don’t expect them all the time just because we’re married now, but that was…it was good.”

“Ah, there’re the newlyweds,” a voice said from somewhere to their right.

“Sally, lovely to see you.” Sherlock took care to inject as much sarcasm as possible into his words. Sally sneered.

“Lestrade called. The boys had to go home, there wasn’t much they could do since no one’s dead or injured, plus they’re a little busy at the mo’. I know the situation. I’ve been filled in by your mum. Tell me, how does such a sane woman raise a psychopath like you?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself for years.”

Sally seemed startled by such self-deprecating humor coming from Sherlock Holmes, but she brushed it off and rolled her eyes. “Where’s the boss now?”

“With his wife and daughter. Sally, I don’t think you should bother them,” John replied.

“I won’t. And I’m really sorry about it, but…” She paused, completely serious, for once not resorting to making a joke at Sherlock’s expense. “He’s gonna have to come back to work immediately. As soon as possible. Could you tell him?”

“Yeah, we’ll tell him.”

“Sally.” Sherlock grabbed her arm as she started to leave. She turned to look at him, and for perhaps the first time in their acquaintanceship, there was no animosity in that gaze. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll leave that to Lestrade in his time, when he _can_ tell you. But I’ll tell you this.” She leaned in close and her voice dropped to a concerned whisper. “It’s not good. That explosive that went off near here—it went off along with four others all over London, all hospitals. This was the only one out of place. Honestly, that’s all we know. Nothing you won’t see on telly tomorrow morning.”

“Right. Thanks, Sally,” Sherlock said, and she was definitely surprised this time.

“Don’t mention it,” she said suspiciously, and with a nod to John, she left.

“What was that about?” John said.

Sherlock shrugged. “Do you want to dance?”

“Sure, in a moment, but—”

“I love dancing. I’d love to start dancing at my own wedding at some point.”

“Yes, alright,” John said, clearly deciding not to press the matter further until tomorrow. Sherlock knew that John would see that he’d had a point—it _was_ their wedding day, and it hadn’t gone very smoothly so far.

Sherlock led him out onto the floor, and someone announced their first dance, for some reason. Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about the people watching them and _aww_ -ing at every turn, every pause, every simple kiss. All Sherlock cared was that he was dancing, that he was dancing to something he’d composed just for this moment, and, most importantly, that he was dancing with John.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out with IMPLIED Molly/Lestrade, I swear.


End file.
